The Problem Every Poet Faces

O'er the vast, unyielding desert
of an unmarked paper white,
I clutch my pen in disconcert
and curse my wretched plight.

the starkness of my thoughts was apt
to grab away my sanity.
Salvation cease, has yet to crack
my torment, oh, my malady.

Rain has blurred the world--and blind
is what I am, I shan't refute.
Unlike the clouds, my withered mind
refuses to produce.

I try--so help me Gods, I try
to bring forth my best words.
But--alas!--my brain shall sigh,
for thereupon is curse.

'Tis a horror, plague, disease
when Inspiration Ink runs dry.
'tis irksome, stubborn (much like fleas)
when words cannot be come by.

And still I toil through the plane
of a poet's muted musing;
all is drained like bloodless vein
in wake leaves only brooding.

"Where, pray tell, shall I then seek,"
I cry, with hair clutched in my hands
"For water for a thirsty creek?
to rain upon a desert's sands?"

Tis a horrid drought of mind
and heart whence, without err, shall come
Imaginations--great, divine
But this I am kept from.

Venture I into a reign
of blank white papers and full pens
whose purpose served, but all in vain
for lines, by dozens, scratched to ends.

And thus, in utter desperation,
the serpent bit its own damned tail;
poetic drought and dehydration
are now my ink to pen this tale.